


Ashes to Ashes

by greygerbil



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood Rituals, M/M, Past Heterosexual Marriage, Pining, Sort-Of-Regency-Era, black magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 02:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: Silas Nightingale has served Ephraim Windham all his life and seen many a hard hour with his lord, including the death of Ephraim's wife and the terrible illness of his daughter. All these years, he remained a loyal confidant while nursing an affection he believes to be unrequited. Silas' help, however, has not been restricted to the realm of what mere mortals can do and it looks like his special knowledge may once more be needed.





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/gifts).



> I loved your suggestions and hope you enjoy this treat!

“Sometimes I wonder if it would not be pertinent to hire a valet.”

Silas did his best not to let it show on his face how his ribcage had constricted around his heart when he heard these words. If his lord considered making a decision about staffing, it was not Silas’ place to give his opinion. However, as he picked up Ephraim’s empty tea cup, he allowed himself to ask, voice carefully blank: “Have I been negligent in any of my duties, sir?”

Ephraim looked up at him from his place in the heavy armchair that framed him in red velvet. Once more Silas noticed the lines in his face and the grey in his short dark curls that only served to make him look more distinguished. Silas had grown up in this house alongside his own father, butler to Lord Ephraim Windham’s parents, and Ephraim himself, five years older than Silas, who had been forgiving on his childish whims back in those long-gone days of their earliest childhood and was still a fair and good master to him now.

“Not at all, Silas. Still, I only noticed once more when we had the Wallaces over how busy you were. We are both not getting any younger and this is a big estate. Besides, the injury can’t make things easier.” He glanced at the beautifully carved and carefully kept wooden left hand that Silas had strapped to the stump of his left wrist, hidden under a black leather glove now so that nothing but a certain stiffness appeared unusual about the hand. “I have been carrying this thought with me for a while, but I confess I have been reluctant to introduce it for the very fact that you give me very little reason to. If I found a valet so that you could focus solely on your functions as butler and administrator of my household, I am almost certain they would not perform with the exact precision I value in you. But working you to the bone won’t sharpen yours, either.”

“Sir, I am glad you are so concerned for me, but I assure you I have yet to feel overwhelmed. I would be happy to serve you in both ways still.”

Where Ephraim was concerned that a different valet might not live up to his standards, Silas was certain he himself would be positively livid watching someone blunder their way through learning them. Perhaps after a couple of years they might be suited to fill his own shoes, but why bother with such discomfort for everyone? After all, a newcomer had not witnessed and learned Ephraim’s preferences and habits like Silas had, having grown up from scullery boy to footman into his current role all in this house. They did not know Ashfield Manor like Silas did, who, having lived here all his life, could spot a book out of place glancing across the library and fix it before Ephraim had to be bothered by it in his perusal of the shelves. He had been born and bred to work here, felt himself as much part of the Ashfield estate as the ancient weeping willows on the grounds behind the house were, leaning over the bright Clearwater Brook.

He did not wish to be replaced.

“You are accommodating as always. Very well, Silas, I am more easily convinced in this than I should be,” Ephraim said, closing the book he had been holding, a favourite translation of Plato. “I just thought I should mention it.”

Relief flooded Silas as he gave a smile.

“Would you like me to call your daughter to dinner now, Sir? It is almost six.”

“Please do.”

-

Silas found Mariah Chetwood, the governess, stand by the side of Christianna’s chair in the girl’s chambers almost exactly as he had stood by Ephraim’s side in the sitting room. Christianna took after her father in looks, with the same cloud of curly black hair he would have had had he not cropped it so short, the same dark skin, the same thoughtful brown eyes; and just like him, she would spend her afternoons with her head buried in books if her studies permitted it, as she did now. In many other such manners big and small she also took after him, but this, of course, made sense. The girl had only been two when her lady mother had died six years ago. Poor Louisa Selkirk had not had much time on this earth to impress her personality on her sole child. Christianna’s laugh sounded just like her mother’s, though, Silas had often noted. But then again, Ephraim laughed so little, especially now after his wife’s death, that even Silas could barely remember what it sounded like.

“Madam, Miss Chetwood,” he greeted them, standing in the doorway.

“Mister Nightingale,” the governess answered, nodding.

Christianna lifted her eyes from the page, then shut the book and handed it to Miss Chetwood with a polite expression of gratitude before joining Silas’ side.

Together, Silas and Christianna descended the stairs that bent in a gentle curve to reach the first floor of the manor, wide enough for fifteen people to walk abreast, but in reality rarely used by anyone but Ephraim and his daughter or his servants. Silas had a feeling that both Ephraim and Christianna had breathed a secret sigh of relief to see the Wallaces leave last night. They were a bit reclusive, the Windhams, if impeccable entertainers when necessary; and Silas suspected their keeping to themselves only heightened the allure for all who wished to meet them, for the Windham family was one of the richest in the kingdom and yet flaunted so little of it. The more honour it was to work here, in Silas’ opinion, and be so close to them.

Christianna hid a yawn behind the back of her hand.

“Were your lessons exhausting today, madam?”

“No, not really. I like math,” Christianna said. “I’ve just been tired. I don’t know. Miss Chetwood says it would do me good to go riding.”

“I daresay she’s right, madam. Sunlight is healthy.”

She smiled at him.

“You’re always inside, though. You’re as pale as a ghost!”

To prove it, she put her hand over his, which did indeed look pallid in comparison. Silas chuckled.

“That’s not quite fair, madam. My ancestors came from the cold rainy north, unlike yours. Besides, it’s not true for all of me,” he added, pulling up his glove to show a couple of inches of his prosthesis, which was in fact made of a dark mahogany.

Christianna giggled, filled with the ghoulish glee that children often enjoyed at the sight of such things.

“Besides, I do oversee that proper work is done on the gardens and the lands belonging to the manor. Perhaps, if your father allows it, you would like to accompany me sometime?”

“That sounds fun,” Christianna agreed with a nod. “And father will be happy for me to learn. He always says, ‘you are going to be lady of this manor someday, so you need to start being interested. I can’t do the books for you from under a gravestone.’” She deepened her voice and looked very stern.

“Now, it’s not good manners to imitate people, madam,” Silas chided gently.

But Christianna had caught his brief smile and grinned at him even as she nodded.

Silas opened the wide double wing doors of the dinner hall for Christianna. He saw her back straighten as he did so, and a hand go up in her hair to fix an errant curl. Unlike many young noble children he had witnessed, he did not think that Christianna feared her father, but she did know, just like Silas, that he appreciated a certain amount of order. She smiled when Ephraim gave her a complaisant nod from where he sat at the head of the long table, which had already been set by the house maids. Silas pulled out the chair for her and poured her and her father cold, clear water from a decanter before lifting the silver covering off the food standing between them. He served both father and daughter a slice of the still-steaming pigeon pie, filled by their excellent cook with the stewed bird meat and bacon as well as thinly sliced onions, celery, and carrots, and refined with a variety of herbs. Silas knew he’d be allowed to take his own meal from what the family left, probably later, an hour or so before midnight, when the lord and his daughter were sleeping, and he was looking forward to it.

Standing quietly between two portraits of ancestors of the Windham family too old for anyone in the room to have known them, Silas listened as Christianna detailed her lessons to her father, who listened with interest. However, she fell into silence by the end of her tale, picking at her pie, of which she had eaten little.

“Father, may I be excused to bed before dessert?” she asked.

Silas saw his own surprise mirrored on Ephraim’s face. Usually, Christianna would fight her father for every minute more to stay awake (though it was a futile endeavour), and she certainly did not prefer sleep to sweets.

“Yes, of course. Are you feeling alright?” Ephraim asked.

“I’m just exhausted.”

Christianna got up and bowed her head briefly to her father before smiling to Silas as he held the door open for her once more. In Ephraim’s eyes, Silas could see concern. Even small or only apparent changes in Christianna’s health would disquiet him, but that was to be expected. While Ephraim’s wife had died suddenly, unexpectedly, from something as tragically mundane and yet so common and unavoidable as stumbling on the stairs and having an unlucky landing, his daughter had, two winters ago, fought with a terrible illness that over the course of weeks had taken her to the door of death.

In fact, she had been past the threshold. But of that, no one but Silas knew.

“Since you are on your own, would you like me to serve dessert in the drawing room?” Silas asked, trying to take Ephraim’s mind of his likely unfounded concerns.

Ephraim winced as if woken from a trance and directed his gaze at him. “Actually, let’s move to my study. I have some work still to do.”

When Ephraim had departed, Silas hurried to the kitchen. Ephraim liked to take a drink of negus instead of tea after dinner. Silas watched as the cook mixed the port wine with hot water, spice, a tablespoon of sugar, and squeezed lemon juice into the concoction to finish things up. Silas took the glass and one of the perfectly oval, currant-filled Banbury cakes that was entirely white with sugar. Upstairs, he was admitted by Ephraim’s voice after a brief knock on his study door and placed both the negus and the cake on the far edge of his orderly desk to an approving glance from Ephraim that forced Silas to hide a smile.

The latest newspaper laid ready on a chair and Silas picked it up.

“Would you like me to read, sir?”

“Yes, please. This is quite tedious.”

When bored with the more rote aspects of managing his ample lands, Ephraim liked to have something to listen to and Silas happily provided. The hours he spent reading the newspaper or a book to his lord were often the best of his day. Sometimes, Ephraim would interrupt him and draw him into a conversation about politics, philosophy, or whatever other topic had been sparked in his mind, or make dry comments about the authors or subjects of the articles. Even if he was quiet as today, no doubt still worrying about Christianna, Silas still knew that his steady voice was providing Ephraim with some diversion. Ephraim never wanted anyone else but Silas to do this for him. If he could not be gotten a hold of, the other servants had told Silas, Ephraim would simply sit in silence.

When Ephraim was finished, it was late enough to go to rest, and Silas followed Ephraim into the bedroom unprompted. He helped him out of his black tailcoat, deftly unbuttoned his vest one-handed and undid the cotton cravat. While Ephraim took care of the rest of his clothes and put on the long robe belted at the waist he wore to bed, Silas folded his clothes neatly and placed them in a wicker basket for the house maids to take care off. Though they would be washed, anyway, he knew Ephraim did not enjoy crumpled clothes to be laying in his room for any amount of time. Silas also picked up Ephraim’s black boots to take with him to clean.

“Good night, sir.”

“Yes. Silas, if it’s not too much trouble...”

“Should I check in on Lady Christianna before I go to bed, sir?”

Ephraim smiled briefly at Silas guessing his thoughts and nodded his head.

-

“Your daughter was fast asleep last I saw her in the evening,” Silas said, as he prepared the lather in the bronze bowl while Ephraim adjusted the protective cloth around his shoulders. “I’m sure she will be much revived today.”

“I do hope so.”

“You have a meeting with Lady Susanne Fallers before breakfast to discuss matters of the Shelby Acres acquisition, and Lord Eric Pemberton is going to be over for dinner tonight,” Silas reminded him. They always went through Ephraim’s appointments in the mornings, so he made sure to memorise them correctly.

Ephraim exhaled through his nose. “Lord Pemberton is going to try to marry me to his daughter again, is he not?”

Silas swallowed a chuckle.

“Since your disinterest in the topic has not stopped him the last few times he tried, I fear so.”

Yet, Silas knew it was pointless. Ephraim had no need to marry for anything but love and since Lady Louise’s death was now half a decade past, it was becoming clear he would not commit himself again. Silas supposed he had loved her too deeply; and though Silas’ heart had hurt every time he had seen a clandestine touch or meaningful smile between them then, he had swallowed his resentment and dark thoughts, for she had indeed been a woman worthy of regard. Her death had hit him hard for Ephraim’s sake.

But Ephraim was just forty-one now, not nearly old enough and much too rich for the rest of the nobility to consider him off the market, as Ephraim would often like to complain.

“Ridiculous,” Ephraim murmured. “Some people do not know when they are told ‘no’ without a sealed and stamped letter. If his aunt were not married to my cousin... but such is the burden of family.”

Silas agreed with a hum as he spread lather over Ephraim’s face with his brush. It had been difficult at first, shaving someone with just one hand, and he had not tried it on his master before he had not practiced enough to make sure he wouldn’t draw blood. Now, however, Ephraim and him were both used to the procedure. He would hold his wooden hand under Ephraim’s chin to keep his head leaning steadily back while gently dragging the razor along the planes of his face, carefully following the growth pattern of his black beard, which always grew in thick overnight. There was an intimacy in it that had Silas’ heartbeat speeding even after so many years.

When he was done, he put a bowl with fresh, cold water before Ephraim so he could clean his face, and turned away to wash his hands in another basin.

“I would have you come and play the piano for us if there are no other pressing matters to attend to. At least it will keep Lord Pemberton quiet for a bit and I do enjoy your play. It shall be my reward for the dreary conversation I am sure to endure from him.”

“It’s not as good as it used to be,” Silas said, modestly, though in secret charmed. It was another task he had had to relearn after giving up his hand.

“Not quite, but then, that is my fault. I do not leave you enough time to practice. And it is still very pleasing.”

Ephraim rose from his chair and Silas turned to grab his shirt from the hanger while his lord took off his sleeping robes and put on his undergarments. Silas was always careful not to look closely, for respect’s sake as much as because he knew it was better not to tempt himself with the unreachable. Ephraim helped him with tying the cravat, holding a strip of cloth steady for Silas. He minded not these small tasks Silas could not perform to total perfection anymore.

The Lady Fallers was punctual as always and Silas left the two nobles to their own devices to check that the maids and footmen had done their work around the house to his satisfaction, as he did every morning. Ashfield Manor was an old building that needed a lot of attention and care. While outfitted with modern wooden panelling and chandeliers brightening the dark rooms and thick carpets in lively colours, nothing could hide the fact that in essence it was a castle, not a modern house, built at the tail end of the middle ages out of cold, rough-hewn stones, and even with the moat filled in decades ago to create a proper garden still ready to defend against a siege if necessary. It was difficult to keep warm and harder yet to make inviting. Even with all care taken, visitors could often not shake a feeling that it was a dark place somehow, with its narrow, labyrinthine hallways and high, cast-iron windows. Perhaps it was its history, too – the name had been given because the land Ashfield Manor was build on had been cleared when a whole village had been razed to the ground in a now half-forgotten war, leaving only scorched earth and the remains of burnt bones under the roots of the castle.

Silas’ mood was never depressed by the building, but when he had reached the kitchen to check on breakfast, he heard someone clear their throat behind him, which tore him from his idle thoughts about the place. When he saw Miss Chetwood, Silas’ heart sank. He knew the woman. She was very well-mannered and not the sort to bother him with trivialities. Her dark, heavy brows were also not usually pulled into such a deep frown.

“Mister Nightingale,” she said. “A word?”

“Of course.”

He stepped out of the kitchen, leaning the door shut.

“I fear Lady Christianna has a fever. She’s quite sluggish. I don’t think she should be coming to breakfast. I’d rather keep her in bed.”

“Well, you’ll know best. Keep by her side. Please also send one of the footmen for the physician in Old Briar,” Silas said. “I’m sure Lord Windham will be happy to pay him whatever he wishes to come as soon as possible.”

“Yes,” she said, with some relief, already turning to hurry back down the hallway.

This left Silas to inform Christianna’s father.

-

Ephraim took the news with his usual composure, but the fact that he left Silas to entertain his guest who sat at the breakfast table to check on his daughter told Silas he was truly disturbed. Silas gave his best to make light of the situation to Lady Faller and when Ephraim returned he, too, engaged her in some polite conversation; nevertheless, she seemed to know her presence was unwanted at the moment and with business concluded excused herself quickly after the meal. Silas doubted that Lord Pemberton would grace them with similar tact.

“Miss Chetwood told me you already had a physician called for,” Ephraim said, sipping his water.

“It seemed pertinent. My apologies for not going through you first.”

“No, that’s fine.” Ephraim sat the glass down. “Although it’s likely just a cold.”

“Most certainly, sir.”

-

Three days later, Christianna was still in bed. Aside from the physician from Old Briar, a market town an hour off, three others had been called out of the surrounding villages. By the fourth day, Silas found her room garnished with half a dozen vinaigrettes, little boxes filled with oil-and-spice-soaked sponges used to wake those who felt faint, as well as bottles of pills and various tinctures. Christianna laid in a nest of thick pillows and blankets as Silas entered in the afternoon to bring her dinner. Her father sat in a chair by her bedside.

“How are you today, madam?”

She made a face at him. “One of the doctors put leeches on me.”

“They are good for you,” Ephraim said strictly.

“I know. But they wriggle, Silas! Ugh, they’re just awful.”

Silas had to smile. The girl looked rather pale, with a tired, unfocused, gaze that had been the same for a couple days now. He figured the leeches would have left her weakened, too; hopefully, the sickness had gone with the blood they’d sucked.

“I imagine so. I confess I have never liked them too much myself. I hope you will not have to face them again, madam,” he said, though knowing Ephraim disapproved of him commiserating with her about necessities, since, according to Ephraim, it would only teach her to complain. Still, she was a child. At times they needed a little coddling, if you asked Silas. Either way, Ephraim did not chide him now.

However, Silas was also not totally sure that Christianna was even listening. She’d seemed so arbitrary these past few days, paying attention one moment, then totally distracted the next.

“Can we go riding, father, Silas and me?” she asked Ephraim, suddenly. “He wanted to show me the work the gardeners do.”

Ephraim looked surprised.

“When you’re healthy, you may accompany him.”

“Yes, I want to go riding.” Christianna looked at the ceiling, smiling blithely. “You should come, father. If you’re not busy.”

“Well – I am sure I could find some time,” Ephraim said quietly.

Ephraim was always busy, but obviously not even he could tell his daughter ‘no’ now, for which he should not be blamed. Silas laid out her dinner on a small table. When he turned back to her, she had already drifted off to sleep.

-

Silas did not know what he thought of the good properties leeches, but not being a physician, his opinion held little weight, anyway. However, there was power in blood, no denying it. If you spilled it, spent it, sacrificed it, you could shift the perilous ways of fate in your favour. Only flesh and bone were more powerful – the irreplenishable parts of the body.

In truth, Silas would gladly have given another hand for Christianna, would indeed not have cared if he’d lived destitute on the street as a beggar unable to earn his own bread if it had meant keeping her alive. But maybe it did not have to come to that this time. He was better prepared these days.

Silas waited until dark night had fallen, illuminated just by the thin light of stars and a slim sickle of a moon. He made sure that Ephraim was settled in the library before he walked down the path from the servant entrance at the back, a door so small he had to duck through it. As another oddity of Ashfield Manor, the paved road at the back of the house that went out into the rolling grasslands belonging to the manor had to snake past a graveyard, surrounded by mighty oaks and an old stone wall. No one lived in the small chapel on these grounds anymore, but they were still consecrated and all the members of the Windham family were buried here. Selecting an especially thick and rust-flecked key from out of his pocket, Silas unlocked the graveyard gate and pulled it carefully shut behind himself.

Under his boots, the loose pebble stone way crunched and clicked. He walked past younger graves in the front, Ephraim’s parents and his wife, each adorned with a human-sized angel, their stone hands folded in prayer over austere, square gravestones. There were still many empty spots of grass waiting to open their earthen maws and swallow future generations; but also many gravestones so old that the inscriptions had to be redone several times over and the groundskeepers found the moss and ivy trying to reclaim them daily. This was where Silas let his steps carry him. There was ancient power in spots like this.

He settled down on his knees before the grave of a knight, one of the first owners of the mansion. There, he sat down the silver bowl he had carried, filled with the crumbled dust of dried clover and the fresh heads of daisies. These plants had the properties of healing in them, but to activate their might, you needed something stronger.

Out of his pocket, he slipped the lock of hair he’d cut off Christianna’s head when he’d visited the sleeping girl just now. Then, he took a sharp knife out of his pocket and pulled up the sleeves of his jacket and shirt. It would not be so bad to draw blood from the arm that ended in a stump; it was so often useless, anyway.

Biting his tongue, he cut a thick, deep wound into the flesh of his forearm. It hurt, and his fingers tried to shy away on instinct; but he’d taken off his own hand, and after that no self-inflicted pain was too great to bear anymore.

Angling his arm, he watched the blood well up and run into the bowl. Drop by red drop, it filled the basin, the flowers and crumpled leaves floating on top, the hair spreading out over the surface like cobwebs, illuminated now by a dull glow that seemed to come out of the centre of the liquid without any source at all. Silas pressed his thumb into his wound and spread the blood over his lips.

He only knew as much Akkadian as he had learned from the old scrolls, and no one had ever spoken it around him other than his grandmother, but from his success last time he had to hope he was doing it right. He recited the words he had learned by heart, an incantation asking the spirits to take his offering and in return restore the well-being of the young Lady Christianna.

As he spoke, the blood, flowers, and hair drained away as through an invisible hole in the bottom of the bowl, and the light dimmed at the same time. The offer had been accepted.

Silas breathed out. He didn’t know which spirits they were, exactly. They drank blood and ate flesh and bones, apparently, which should give one some thought; but then again, did humans not eat animals, too? Perhaps they were just an entirely different kind of being in comparison to mortals, and their power was, after all, undeniable.

“Silas?”

Silas shot to his feet so fast he kicked against the empty bowl, sending it clattering against a gravestone. Turning, he saw Ephraim, who stared at him in wide-eyed confusion.

“Sir, what… are you doing here?” Silas stuttered, and immediately wanted to kick himself. It was not his right to demand of his lord where on his own grounds he chose to spend his time. The way Ephraim’s look darkened, he was not the only one who had noticed the infraction.

“I think that is a question _I_ should be asking right now,” he answered, glancing pointedly at Silas’ bloody lips and the fresh wound on his arm.

Silas had no idea how to put this into any words that might satisfy Ephraim in a few sentences, or how to make up a lie that would calm him sufficiently.

“I can explain,” he said weakly.

“First, you need to take care of the wound,” Ephraim answered, and Silas thought there was some fear mixed into the anger in his voice. How much had he seen of the ritual? “Come.”

Carrying his empty bowl, Silas followed Ephraim, head hanging. Ephraim led the way into the house and up a narrow set of stairs into his chambers, where he pointed at Silas to go to the washing table. With the clear water that always stood at the ready, he wiped his mouth off and splashed his arm to get the worst blood stains off. When he turned, Ephraim was holding out one of his pillowcases that Silas had put folded into the laundry basket just this morning.

“Press this on the wound.”

“Sir, I can’t use your linen for something like this…”

“I said put it on the wound! Since when do I have to repeat myself with you?”

Ephraim so rarely shouted at him that Silas found the words stabbing deeper than any knife could. With a meek nod, he took the pillowcase and bunched it up to press it down on his arm, even if doing that to the expensive white fabric still gave him a twinge of anxiety.

With a small gesture of his hand, Ephraim bid him follow, and they walked into the study.

“Sit,” Ephraim said, as he himself took his place at the desk.

Silas sat where he usually would to read the newspaper, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

“Now what in God’s name was going on out there? I just came to think in peace and then I find you chanting in some language I have never heard in my life, all smeared with blood, and that unearthly glow…”

It was clear he was unsettled and Silas could not fault him for it. Ephraim was a very practical man who saw reason as the highest virtue, barely even concerned with the church more than society expected of him. Magic of any make would have upset him, not to mention the kind Silas employed.

He took a deep breath before he began. “My grandmother is the one who taught me,” he said. She’d been governess to the children of Ephraim’s own grandparents. Their families had so long been intertwined – but now, Silas feared, it would all unravel. “Her first husband died before she came to be employed here, you may remember, but he was a travelling merchant who had acquired a set of old scrolls across the sea in the west of Feldland. Your great-uncle Henry was often sickly, and eventually my grandmother tried some of the spells. She thinks they may be the only reason he didn’t die in infancy.” He swallowed. “Now, you know my father was a pious man, so he would hear none of it. But she gave the scrolls to me when I was old enough. What’s more, I once watched her perform the ritual and the man she targeted with it shook his sickness in a day’s time when he hadn’t in the six months before.”

Ephraim’s dark eyes were on him, his face still set in a disquieted frown, but he did not interrupt.

“Nevertheless, I was quite frightened of such powers and did not give it too much thought until your wife…” He let the sentence politely peter out. “I realised how helpless I was and that perhaps if I had studied my grandmother’s texts closer, I could have done something to help her. But still I did not quite dare to dive into them in earnest.”

“My wife was dead the moment she fell. She broke her neck,” Ephraim said. “What could anyone have done?”

“The soul lingers a little while still… I found this out reading the texts. But I did not apply myself to it enough. Only when your daughter grew ill two winters ago did I really start to take it serious. I was almost too late, then. She had already passed. There was a remedy in the texts, but… such a gift from the spirits comes with a cost higher than blood.”

Silas glanced at the wooden hand in his lap.

“You told me you were attacked by wolves!” Ephraim exclaimed.

He had indeed, saying that on the way riding back from a town where he had travelled to ask another apothecary for advice, he’d been surrounded by the creatures and what they’d left of his hand had to be taken off to save the arm by a physician when people had found him in the roadside ditch.

“No. I took it off myself with an axe and cauterised the stump with fire when the ritual was done. Those three days I was missing I spent on the brink of death myself in a shed by the Clearwater. It was agony, for I could not know if I’d been successful.”

But he had been. The other servants had told him upon his return that Christianna had sat up with a scream one night, throwing the shroud that had already been drawn over her head off of her. She’d almost given poor Ephraim and Miss Chetwood a heart attack.

“So she really was dead,” Ephraim whispered. “I knew it. I listened to her chest myself when they told me she had passed. When she woke, they claimed her pulse must have been so feeble we all missed it, but I have never paid closer attention to anything in my life than when I held my dead daughter in my arms.”

Silas nodded his head.

“I did not want it to come to that again. I’m sure Lady Christianna may have recovered on her own this time, but… since I know a way to help, it’s what I did. Just to be sure.” He exhaled. “That’s all, sir.”

Ephraim watched him for a long moment before slowly shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you are practicing the devil’s magic in my house. I can’t believe it _exists_.”

Silence stretched between them again. Carefully, Silas lifted the pillowcase off the wound. It wasn’t bleeding profusely anymore. He couldn’t feel the physical pain over the one Ephraim’s words caused.

“I would go to my room and dress the wound now, sir, if you’ll allow me.”

Ephraim nodded his head.

When Silas looked over his shoulder, he saw him staring at his empty desk, deep in thought.

-

After he had bound the wound properly, Silas began packing his things. He had a nice brown suitcase which he took when he accompanied Ephraim on his rare longer journeys and that he kept in good condition to show the servants who he spent his time with at the other lord’s and ladies’ houses that the employees of Ephraim Windham were well-kept. He had always been proud to walk by Ephraim’s side, even when others tried to move him to complain about his exactness and frequent demands. Yes, perhaps Ephraim had high expectations, but Silas matched them. He had even dreamed at times, since he would not marry, of perhaps adopting a child to raise them just as he had been raised to be sensitive to the needs of the household so the legacy of his family could continue alongside the Windhams. These were pleasing thoughts to focus on, if melancholic, knowing now it would not happen.

With the pain in his arm and the anguish in his mind slowing down his rational thoughts, Silas spent all of the night packing. He had lived all thirty-five years of his life in this room, sharing it with his father before his death, so despite the fact that he had kept it neat and tidy, he found himself having trouble removing every trace of his existence in such haste. Where would he go? He doubted Ephraim would recommend him to anyone and even if, they would be suspicious that Silas wanted to move away from such an illustrious house. Besides, who would believe him he could do proper work with one hand? Ephraim had given him a chance to prove himself, but no other employer who was not bound by old acquaintanceship and family loyalty would show him such leniency.

He had just sorted through all of his shirts to pick the best ones to come with him when he heard footsteps outside. Since his room had no windows, he did not know what time it was, but he figured the maids and footmen would be up now to prepare the table for breakfast, see to the stables, and start their daily chores about the house. It was a surprise to him to find a quick knock at his door and then see Christianna’s head poking through the gap. She was still in a sleeping gown, which meant she must have escaped Miss Chetwood, who would never have let her leave the room like this.

“Good morning, Silas,” she greeted him.

Silas managed a genuine smile seeing her so obviously improved, her voice clear and lively.

“Good morning, madam. You seem much better.”

Christianna sat down at the edge of his bed.

“When I woke up, my fever was gone. Miss Chetwood was very pleased. She’s gone to fetch my father, so I have to go back soon. But I wanted to tell you myself.”

It was not the first time she had come to find him when she was awake too early for her lessons or bored in the afternoons or just because an idea had come into her head. Silas always rather enjoyed her company, since she was an agreeable and clever girl; but being so smart, she also spotted that the room was different immediately, and saw the packed bag by the door.

“Are you and father travelling?” she asked.

Good God, he wished he did not have to have this conversation now. Grown man that he was, he had at times barely managed to hold in the tears this night. Still, Christianna was old enough and she would learn of his departure quite soon. He’d rather not leave her on a lie.

“I regret to say that I am not going to be staying with this household any longer, madam.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Indeed.”

“Forever?”

Christianna’s mouth hung open.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. But-”

Before he could add anything, Christianna had jumped from her spot on the bed and slung her thin arms around his waist. Silas found himself silenced with surprise. With her father being so strict on her, Christianna had long learned to rein in any childish outbursts, but she was clinging to him now like a regular little girl might to a favourite uncle.

“You can’t leave!” she wailed. “I thought you liked working here?”

“I do, madam, but I’m afraid there have been some occurrences that will make it difficult for your father to keep employing me. Entirely my fault, I assure you,” Silas said, carefully petting her shoulder.

“Father knows?” She looked up, stunned. “No, I won’t let him! He always tells me it’ll be my manor one day, so I should have a say!”

As she spoke, she let go off him and stormed out of the door.

“Madam!” Silas called after her, but she was already a good distance down the hallway and showed no sign of slowing.

With a sigh, Silas stepped back into his room. He should not wonder at her being upset. Aside from her father and Miss Chetwood, he was probably the only adult who’d been around her consistently while she was growing up. What a dear child to get so attached! But he figured that in time, she would forget him, too, as the memories of childhood faded, and that was for the best.

He finished picking out his shirts and had just closed the bag when another knock came at the door, this one more forceful and measured. The rhythm was not new to Silas. He stood ramrod-straight immediately.

“Yes, sir?”

Ephraim entered the room and closed the door behind himself, looking at the bag at Silas’ feet.

“Christianna just informed me I had fired you,” he said. “I don’t remember anything of the sort.”

Now it was Silas’ turn to be stunned. What else was he supposed to take from the conversation they had had last night? Ephraim had made his opinion perfectly clear. _The devil’s magic._

“I thought that you did not want me in your house anymore after what I had done?”

“What have you done? Saved my daughter’s life? I don’t know what kind of spells you’re working, but they seem effective.” Ephraim shook his head. “I admit I think it defies belief, but can see plainly now you weren’t lying to me. No normal recovery is that quick. But even if it were not for that, do you think I would let you go so easily?”

“I am just your butler, in the end.”

Ephraim grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him.

Silas had dreamed of this moment for the last twenty-five years of his life, but now that it had come, he stood there dumb and motionless, entirely unable to come up with even the response to kiss Ephraim back.

Ephraim separated from him with something that sounded like a growl, a sound he’d never heard out of the composed man.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “That was ill-done of me.”

“No…”

Seeing his chance slip away, Silas took hold of his shoulder and pulled him in for another kiss. Ephraim pressed his lips tightly against his, but pulled his head away.

“We cannot do this. I don’t want you to think I’m making this part of your duties.”

“I would never think that of you, sir,” Silas said, scandalised by just the thought. Ephraim was an honourable man.

“And yet, it could make you feel beholden to me.”

Silas lifted his wooden hand. “I did this of my own volition and with no hopes of your affections. I have always been beholden to you and your family, sir.”

Thoughtfully, Ephraim touched the hand, allowing his fingerpads to rest in its dead wooden palm. “For how long did you see me differently?”

“Since my youth,” Silas answered truthfully. Since he’d been too young for Ephraim to reasonably pay him real attention; but also long after, when their years became so advanced the gap in their ages was barely noticeable anymore, and what had once been a starry-eyed crush had turned into deep and abiding affection.

“Yet you stayed here as I got married?”

“Your wife was a good woman and she made you happy. No one could have begrudged her your hand.”

He had grieved over the marriage, yes, but whenever he saw them together, he had known it would not be right to even think to intervene. Had only fate taken the same lesson as him.

Ephraim gave a slow nod. “There was little to be glad about when she passed, save for my daughter. I took me a while to realise that the one other person whose presence I still enjoyed was you. You far exceeded all I could have wanted in a servant. You were my friend. To ask even more, however, would have been too presumptuous.”

Silas kissed him again and this time, Ephraim did not draw away. His hands came to rest on Silas’ sides. With his good hand, Silas reached out blindly, feeling for the key in the hole and turning it. When he heard the mechanical click, his hand immediately latched on to Ephraim again, pulling him closer.

They sank on the bed as Ephraim moved his mouth down to Silas’ throat, the rough drag of his stubble making Silas’ smile.

“Your beard...”

“Well, you weren’t with me this morning,” Ephraim said. “I want to believe I am not too clumsy yet to shave myself, but I was worried you had fallen ill, since you are never anything but punctual. And after how harsh I was to you last night, I... had other things on my mind.”

“I’s not a problem, sir.”

“It is. I made you think you should leave, if you remember.”

Ephraim kissed him again and reached between them to open their trousers. Silas could feel his heart jumping like a young deer. It had been so many years of wanting this that it barely felt real, but at the same time, he was happy that Ephraim seemed as impatient as him, if his own hard manhood pressing into Silas’ hip was anything to go by. He did hope that in time they would have chance to enjoy each other’s presence properly, but for not he just needed affirmation and release.

“Let me,” he mumbled, but Ephraim shook his head.

“It is my pleasure, Silas. Besides, you do enough for me. It is only fair I add my share.”

The toothy hint of a smile on Ephraim’s face played on Silas’ instincts, and he was too enticed by it to protest. He ran his good hand under Ephraim’s shirt, exploring the plane of his back as Ephraim gripped them firmly in one hand. Silas’ heels dug into the bed he had so carefully made in anticipation of his departure, crinkling the white sheets. They were laying on it with shoes, clothes rumpled, exchanging sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as Ephraim fisted their manhoods, and it could not have been more perfect. Silas wrapped his free arm around Ephraim’s neck and Ephraim turned his head briefly to place a kiss on his wooden hand. Though of course he could not feel it, his heart swelled at the gesture. He drew Ephraim into a tight kiss, his tongue in his master’s mouth, his hand clawing into his back as he spent himself over his fingers. Ephraim kept moving his hand to bring himself to his peak, still holding on to Silas’ soft member, and the pleasant little aftershocks of overstimulation had Silas shiver under him. He embraced Ephraim tightly as his lord came, enjoying the way his muscles all bunched up and then shuddered apart, leaving him slack on top of Silas.

They laid still in each other’s arms for a long while before Ephraim gently disentangled himself. As they sat up, a rare smile was on his face. Silas slid off the bed and grabbed one of the towels he had stacked on a chair to clean himself and Ephraim as best he could right now. Ephraim sat still, looking pleased.

“Would you like one of my shirts?” Silas asked, considering the damage they had done. It would be a tight fit around Ephraim’s wider shoulders, but he would not have him run around the house in suspiciously stained clothing.

“Yes.”

Silas handed his best one to him out of the suitcase and then went on to change his own clothes.

“We need to talk to Christianna before she decides to disown herself and leave this house with you,” Ephraim said, buttoning up his shirt.

Silas had to smile.

“I’m very sorry for worrying the young madam.”

“I think the blame for that falls squarely on my shoulders,” Ephraim answered. “Come now.”

-

They found Christianna with Miss Chetwood, who looked past Ephraim at Silas with wide eyes. Seeing the silent question in them, as Christianna had likely told her of her of the cause of her righteous anger, Silas made sure to give Miss Chetwood a brief shake of his head. They had worked together for this family for long enough, and well enough in tandem, that he did not blame her for being shocked. He would have been just as worried at the thought of losing her.

Christianna, who sat at her desk with her fists balled, looked uncertainly between them.

“Miss Chetwood, I would like to have a word with my daughter. If you would see to breakfast being served? Silas will be needed here for a moment longer.”

“Of course, sir.”

With quick steps Miss Chetwood passed them by and closed the door quietly behind herself.

Ephraim drew up a chair and sat to face his daughter.

“I fear I have caused some confusion for Silas and you. It was never my intention to let Silas go, but I spoke out of turn to him last night and made him think so.”

It surprised Silas to hear him admit so directly to a fault that Silas did not even blame him for, since the revelation he had gotten would have frightened any man.

“Why did you do that?” Christianna asked, uncertainly. It was not like her father to fly off the handle, she knew, just like Silas; it was why he had taken it so seriously himself.

“Because I was upset and confused. Which is why one should remember to pick their words carefully and not let momentary flights of fancy influence them too much, lest one hurt people one cares about.”

There was a reason Ephraim had kept him around for this conversation, Silas realised, as the warmth of affection spread through his chest once more.

Christianna gave her father a slow nod.

“Did you apologise?” she asked. “Is Silas going to stay?”

Ephraim glanced over his shoulder. “We will have to ask him if he wants to do that.”

“Yes,” Silas said, too hastily. “Of course.”

“And you are absolutely right, I didn’t apologise yet.”

“That’s not necessary, sir,” Silas muttered, touched but embarrassed by the suggestion. Ephraim had not been unreasonable!

“Yes, it is, my daughter is right.” He stood up and offered him his hand. “I hope you can accept my sincerest apologies, Silas. If not now then perhaps later.”

Quickly, Silas shook his hand, bowing his head to him. “I certainly will.”

“Christianna, I will send a maid up to help you get ready for breakfast,” Ephraim said, after squeezing Silas’ fingers for perhaps a fraction of a moment too long. “Silas, would you come with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

However, Silas lingered as Ephraim walked to the door and held out his hand to Christianna, too.

“Thank you for clearing up this misunderstanding for me, madam. I am very happy to stay here.”

She wrapped her thin fingers around his bigger ones.

“I’m happy you’re staying, too,” she said, smiling.

-

It was a sunny day, just warm enough that the breeze that was blowing eastwards felt pleasant on the skin. Christianna rode ahead of them on her pony, stopping here and there to closely inspect rose bushes heavy with blossoms, blue columns of delphinium, droves of hollyhock at the banks of the brook, and all the other multicoloured wonders the gardeners had let spring up on Ephraim’s grounds.

“I must say, I barely knew about half these things,” Ephraim said, riding by Silas’ side. “It seems I should take stock of my mansion more often.”

“You do work a lot, sir,” Silas answered, making his agreement as polite as he could. He knew that, being the type of person Ephraim was, he’d never be less than industrious, but Silas would admit he did worry for him sometimes.

Ephraim hummed.

“It is nice to be out here with my family,” he said, glancing at Silas, who could not hide a giddy little smile at the indication that perhaps he was included in that word.

Christianna had turned her pony around and was leading it back towards them.

“It’s beautiful out!” she shouted. “And I didn’t think I would be able to ride so soon. The doctors all said I might be sick for weeks.”

“Your recovery was truly remarkable. It seems like there may be a benevolent spirit looking on both of us,” Ephraim answered. “A guardian angel, if you will.”

Silas found himself growing pink as Christianna gave her father a doubtful look.

“But you said spirits and angels don’t really exist.”

“I had to admit to myself as of late that even I don’t know everything. But perhaps that is not a bad thing.” Ephraim snapped his reins. “Now, we wanted to get out to the forest before midday. Let us pick up the pace.”

Silas and Christianna fell in after him, their horses moving at a brisk trot down the earthen lane through the meadows, sunlight streaming down on them. Silas didn’t think he’d ever been happier in his life.


End file.
